


Heated

by TheEarlyKat



Series: Warden Leverette [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: But Also Pining, Leverette is Uncomfortable, Light Angst, M/M, Zevran Flirts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leverette begins to have some feelings for the assassin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Alistair lifted a page from the stack spread across the uneven slab of stump that made up the table of the camp. He shook it free of moss clumps before rubbing his chin. Their days in Lothering had been focused on resupplying and reorganizing rather than personal duties and the scratch of nails on stubble was loud in the silence. Leverette's eye twitched. 

"We go to Kinloch." Alistair shook his head and held the parchment out to him. A breeze made it furl in on itself and hide the scribbled writing from view. Leverette wasn't interested in reading the ages old words before the wind made the choice for him, and he lowered the warrior's arm back to his side. "We've been playing 'follow-the-leader' since we woke at Flemeth's, and if I'm the leader in this game, I say Kinloch." 

"I keep telling you that Redcliffe is closer."

"I'm not hard of hearing nor understanding, Alistair," Levy began, and was interrupted before he could finish the thought when Alistair brought the parchment back into his view. He ran a hand down his face and rolled his neck to search for help from Leliana. The slight quirk of her mouth gave her thought over the matter, but she shook her head nonetheless. Someone, at least, was getting something out their discussion. 

"Then why won't you-"

"Because Redcliffe knows you. The castle cares about you." He pushed forward, ignoring the snort his words received. "The Redcliffe soldiers will respect the Warden treaties but what of the Circle? They're not too keen on finding favor from any mage, less so of any not under their jurisdiction. I've been gone long enough for them to forget me."

"The Circle would never forget you!" Leverette's brow rose and he watched Alistair match the expression. "I- I only meant-" Levy twisted his hands tight around his staff, slivers cutting into his skin, until Leliana rested a light hand over his. He flexed his fingers and she dropped her arm.

"He only means the Chantry would not abandon one of its flock." 

"Yes, well, sheep and the slaughter, right?" He bit his lip to keep from spouting out another sharp retort and shifted in place, attentive of the silence growing between them all. When no one spoke again, he dared opening his mouth. "Kinloch." Alistair made a noise low in his throat but gave no vocal disagreement, and Leliana had crossed her arms again. He took it as a settlement, and turned on his heel to the fire. 

Talk of the Chantry, the Circle, and his continuing role in their far-reachin influence made him uneasy and his skin felt cold and stretched tight over his bones. The heat of the fire warmed the chill and eases the tension in his shoulders. For all the impatience Alistair held for spending time planning, he had little idea of where to go from this point. Leverette fared no better, but he wasn't the one pushing to break camp faster in the mornings to save time or cleaning gear on the road rather than patch up when they stopped for rests. The rush was making them all antsy, and he was only a mage, a patch of pale skin and weak will holding the Fade inside, compared to the wall of muscle Alistair was. The man could easily have blacked an eye if he had the mind yet -

Yet Alistair was just as lost and alone as he was. Leverette sank onto a log pulled close to the fire for sitting with a groan. He let the first few buttons of his uniform loose. He shouldn't have snapped at Alistair. Petty arguments would only sever what little there was left of the Wardens and they were the together to rebuild it, not tear it apart. That was Loghain's job and to the Void if he let the man try one more time. 

A flash of silver caught his eye when he dropped his hands from his face and he watched Zevran clean his daggers with a cloth. The blades were sharp, he knew, but the flickering firelight made them wicked, yet their edges didn't slow the elf's strokes along them. How much confidence was needed, in his knowledge of his weapons and his skill with them, to be so sure? How many years had it taken? How many mishaps? Leverette was jealous. He had just weeks of training and little more in way of experience before he was thrown into his current situation, with no confidence to speak of. The assassin stated he'd been wary to meet them on the road, but when they'd spoken, there'd been no waver in his voice and no doubt in his eyes. Now, now there was much more than just confidence in his eyes, now, and Leverette shifted on the log under his gaze.

Zevran flipped the knife in his hand, blade tip turning over hilt, and caught the handle to test the new edge's weight before slipping it back into its sheath. Leverette hadn't known how long he'd been staring until Zevran chuckled and lifted his eyes to meet his. Heat raced up his neck to cross his cheeks and envelope the curve of his ears. 

"Something you like, dear Warden?" Leverette coughed and the elf's grin widened. He ran his thumb along the sheath in an exaggerated gesture, one that sent Leverette coughing again. Zevran laughed. "Trouble in paradise with that one?" Leverette made a soft noise in answer. "That one is easily swayed. You, however, are..." He trailed off and Levy glanced between his fingers to prompt him further, breath silent to catch his next words. "You are something different," Zevran finished, and the air left Levy's lungs in a rush. What had he been expecting? His talent was nowhere near the elf's. Little interest would be put in him or his affairs, yet he couldn't help to ask. 

"Do you think you could help?"

"With what? The talking? I am better at the killing. And very good at looking handsome. I say I am doing a very fine job of it, yes?" Leverette's face heated again and he blamed it on the fire. "I do not take silence as a disagreement, dear Warden."

He swallowed and rose to his feet, caught off guard with the sudden sway in his balance. "I, um, well, take it as you will." Zevran nodded, another smile playing on his lips while he took out his second dagger and oiled it down as well. Leverette watched him for a moment longer, hesitating. "Don't stay up too late. We'll be packing early."

"Nor, you, Warden." The elf winked and Levy cleared his throat, ducking his head as he pulled himself away from the fire.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick update for this. Someone requested more pining Leverette turning jealous and thought it would fit nicely in here. There might be a third chapter, but no promises.

They didn’t have the silver for food and armor repairs let alone trinkets, yet Zevran had turned the slighted glint of light to find the source. Lothing was meant to be a quick visit - find a blacksmith that could do something with the scraps they'd been picking up, restock their supplies, and plan for the visit to castle for any influence Alistair could give them, and only if they could do the former without being noticed. The first attempt at their lives hadn’t worked, and Leverette was not keen on stumbling upon the second try. The next assassin, or set of assassins, would not be as charmed by his stuttering and wavering concern for his own safety.

He was already getting looks just standing in the market. The staff looked more a walking stick the way he leaned on it, wedging it in the dirt to keep it upright while it supported half his balance, but the gnarled top with its crystal didn’t keep up the illusion for long. The wooden replacement for his leg did less to keep him inconspicuous. The wood, untreated, was rotting, and Leverette swore there was a worm burrowing into it somewhere. A mage was one thing, but a mage with a missing leg was unforgeable. They’d know him for the surviving Warden before the day was done and it would be fast approaching before Zevran looked up an away from the stall. Leverette made his way to the elf, his elbows close to his body to keep from bumping into the crowds of the city’s center.

The assassin was quick to catch his lurching gait and turned from the merchant to display the piece. A mirror, polished smooth, caught the light, and Leverette raised a hand to cover his eyes.

“Ah, it does hurt the eyes to look upon such craftsmanship,” Zevran complimented. He flipped the mirror over to reflect the woman selling it, and she brushed back chestnut curls over his shoulder when she examined herself. “The mirror only just captured the same, don’t you agree?” Her face darkened in a flush and kept her hand to her hair, the other fluttering uselessly by her side. When Zevran offered the mirror back to her, he brushed his fingers against the back of her knuckles. Leverette felt his own fingers twitch.

“Are you going to be buying it, ser?”

“Ser, am I?” Zevran purred, and she tucked her chin against her chest to hide the deepening blush while she sorted through the other wares. Leverette twisted his hands tight around his staff to rid them of their shakes. The breathless laugh she let out set his teeth on edge and he pushed forward, knocking his shoulder into the elf. The wide eyes she turned on him gave Leverette some measure of satisfaction he couldn’t understand.

“No, he’s not going to buy the mirror.” Leverette basked in her dismay and he turned on his heel, tugging on Zevran’s arm to get him to follow. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped. The anger in his voice felt nice, the steel coating his tongue a relief to the storm in his gut. “We’re not here to flirt or to buy things we don’t need. We’re here to get whatever rations we can afford and new gear without attracting any attention.”

Zevran chuckled. “Shouting in the middle of the square is part of that ‘attracting no attention’ plan, yes?”

Leverette bit in the inside of his cheek but moved forward. The market square was loud with enough people yelling out their wares and prices for one more voice to go unnoticed. He had a right to yell, didn’t he? Zevran was going to empty their pockets and get the rest of them killed if he spoke any further to the girl - a plan not unlike the first the assassin had.

Maker help him, Leverette thought the elf’s hands nice and his posture graceful and he was suddenly forgetting just what he was still with them for. Zevran did have nice hands, though.

One grabbed a hold of his staff and turned Leverette around to face Zevran. The sudden spin sent him off balance and the elf pulled him close to keep him on his feet, and the lack of space left no room for Leverette to get a breath of air in. He gasped on his apology and Zevran smoothed a curl back from his forehead. Leverette flushed.

“There is necessity, and then there is needing. Rations are necessity, yes, but we are needing something to take our minds off the day. I happen to be needing beautiful things.” He pulled the mirror from his belt and twirled it in his hand, stopping its spin to have it show Leverette’s face. The mage was met with an image of his own gaping mouth.

“You stole it?”

Zevran pocketed the item and leaned forward, closing than before. “I did. You were a perfect distraction. Perhaps your jealousy play will work for Alistair, too, no?” He lifted an eyebrow and Leverette followed his gaze to where the man was turning a stitched mabari toy over in his hands. Leverette leaned against his staff.

“I wasn’t jealous.”

Zevran met his look with a half smile. “I did not steal the mirror.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I might add a third chapter, and a third chapter there is. About a month or so later. Adds to the plot and pinning that went on in the previous chapter, plus some Morrigan interference.

Leverette glanced over the parchments in his hands to watch Zevran tuck a lock of hair behind one ear. The elf hummed, shook his head once, and let it fall across his cheek once more to wind it around a finger. He leaned back against the desk set up in the space made for the tent later in the evening, before it grew cold and the grey clouds that threatened rain made good on their promise; the small fire was enough to ward off the impending chill of the afternoon and comfort them after the day's travel. Leverette leaned forward, propped up on an elbow, and plucked the mirror from Zevran's hand. 

"You are oddly obsessed with this, you know?"

Zevran tilted his head back to flutter his lashes and Levy flushed. He raised the mirror to his lips to hide the color rising in his cheeks. The smile the elf gave made it difficult to tell if he caught it despite, or whether it was another play on his part. "Perhaps it is not the mirror itself I obsess. Perhaps it is the way it does its job. Reflecting the muse put before it," he purred. Levy glanced down at the mirror and bit the inside of his cheek. The face of the mirror pointed in, towards him, rather than at Zevran, showing him his swollen lips from the constant abuse from his teeth as he worried them and the lines around them to mark the path of the frown he wore more often than not. He raised his eyes back to the elf and knew Zevran saw his blush when his wide-eyed look earned him a wink. 

There was a similar light in his eyes when he'd spoken to the woman in the market. Flirted with the woman in the market. He shifted in his seat and exhaled hard to blow a curl away from his face. It was what Zevran did, his form of communication. He worked his targets over with risky compliments, earned their attention, slit their throats when they lost their minds in the golden color of his eyes unable to see the knife slipping from the sleeve of the arm that moved to hold them. It was the only way he'd learned how to speak and a few weeks of travel in the right - or wrong, Levy supposed - company wouldn't change that. Leverette was simply one more means to an end, a way out of the Crows; if Zevran kept him close, the guild wouldn't risk as much coming back for him. Something about the thought twisted his gut and he returned his eyes to the parchments, rubbing his brow with a forefinger. 

"Dear Warden," Zevran warned, and Leverette tried to ignore the soft tone in his voice at the nickname until a hand latched onto his wrist. He jumped and in the loosening grip of his fingers, someone snatched the mirror from him. Zevran chuckled. Levy turned his surprised expression on Morrigan as she perched on the edge of the desk, flipping the mirror between her hands.

"I once followed a carriage through the city. I was lost and confused among all the people and the noises and hoped to have it lead me back to the Wilds. I saw something glitter, snuck up behind the woman inside, and took her hand mirror." 

"You were a theif?" Zevran turned in the chair to rest his upper half on the surface of the desk and reached for the mirror. Morrigan slapped his outstretched fingers away. 

"Some thief for one that could not keep it hidden. You see. to teach me a lesson, Flemeth, when she eventually found it, took the mirror and smashed it upon the ground. I was heartbroken." 

Leverette winced and caught Zevran's brow rising from the corner of his eye. It wasn't difficult to imagine the rage on the old witch's face when she learned the actions of her daugther, let alone understand the meaning behind the lesson. As short of a time he'd spent with the woman, he placed her as a cruel teacher, but the Wilds were not a place to be soft. Nowhere was a place to be soft when it was an apostate that lived there. "Weren't you just a child?"

Morrigan snorted and shook her bangs out of her eyes. "Perhaps without that lesson, and those that came after it as difficult as they might have been, it would not be me here today." 

"Those lessons made you stronger, yes?" Zevran gave her a look she merely smirked at and twisted the handle between her palms a moment longer before handing it over to him. Leverette jumped forward to grab it back and settled back in his chair when Zevran yanked it out of reach with a laugh. He wagged the mirror tauntingly out of reach and resumed smoothing his hair. Morrigan left with a tap of her nails against the desk, returned Zevran's look with one of her own, and walked off to her own tent. 

Leverette ran a hand through his hair. Morrigan understood him. More than he could ever hope to, locked up in a Circle with no one to teach him anything beyond keeping his head down, holding his magic in check, the little value of his life. The woman at the market had the charm to keep his interest. Leverette had the experience to make Zevran laugh at his efforts. He buried his thoughts in his work and if Zevran asked him what made him frown so, he pressed a finger at the river separating their party


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to get back to Levy's story, I swear. I'm still going to jump around timelines a lot, but here's some more where Levy and Zevran continue to realize they actually like each other.

It was growing colder by the day. Not as cold and the nights at the tower, high in the middle of the lake, where the water would frost over the air as it moved across the flat surface. It wormed its way through cracks formed from ages worth of erosion to chase out what meager warmth the mages found beneath their threadbare blankets. 

There was nothing of the sort here. Only the finest threads were fit for the remaining Wardens, Leverette thought with a twist of his mouth. He picked at a stain in the corner of one of the blankets he'd piled himself under, hoping the dust that flaked off was only a past meal and not a past life. Morrigan was in charge of looting for rations and supplies - and she was good at it. The thread count may have been low in the blankets she found, but there were a multitude of them. None of her companions would die of the cold. Her ire, perhaps, in the form of an icy glare, but not the true cold. 

And that was what had woken him. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin despite the coming winter and it soaked the sheets he laid on, leaving an uncomfortable crawling of his skin. Leverette sat up and wrestled with the sheets tangled about his knees, hindered more as he attempted to free himself quietly. There was no need for further embarrassment if he was to wake someone up, only for them to find him half-dressed and struggling. As if he hadn't embarrassed himself enough already.

Leverette worked the blankets down to his foot and kicked wildly before shoving a knuckle in his mouth, bitting down hard to muffle the pained whimper when his foot cracked against the makeshift desk in the corner of his tent. It rattled, and several sheafs of paper fluttered to the floor. A sudden crash was followed by the delicate twinkling of glass shattering. His other hand hand came to rub at his face.

Zevran's mirror. A confusing knot of emotions twisted in his gut and kept him seated rather than look for little shards he'd rather not step on in the morning - guilt at breaking something the had enjoyed, bitter satisfaction that it was gone, scorn that he cared so much about it and what happened. As if it's breaking meant Zevran would give up his obsession with it and whatever companionship he and Morrigan were sharing would end with it. 

The first hand rose to join the second and Leverette groaned into his palms. What would Zevran say if he could see him now? Something edged with his sharp wit, rounded off with a compliment that would have his face red up to his hairline - as if everything the elf said already didn't have him blushing like an apprentice at his first anatomy lesson. Zevran was an assassin, skilled in all manners of slight and trickery. There was no doubt that all of this - the flirting, the looks - weren't just another part of his work. Zevran said so himself, not in so many words, the day he'd tried to kill them. There was no telling what he'd do under the cover of darkness, although, the sudden appearance of a flashing set of eyes might have sent him to his death in surprise as efficiently as a knife in the chest. 

Yet, here he was, pining for him. His heart would break in either case, Levy realized, with a snort, whether it was a dagger worming its way through his ribs or unrequited feelings. Levy exhaled, hard, and pushed a breath of mana out with it as he finally righted himself. He summoned a wisp to light up the tent's interior and began searching for the glass bits before he found himself lost in thought, forgetting about them only to remember when he stepped on one in the morning. 

"And what cause do you have to be awake so early?" A head poked through the tent and Levy startled at the sudden intrusion. He jerked, the glass slivers falling from his hand, and scrambled away from the entrance, earning himself several shallow cuts on his knee. The elf tsked and invited himself in the rest of the way. He paused when he spotted the broken glass and the beads of blood coating them, and Leverette saw thoughts flicker slowly behind sleep-fogged eyes.

"I...hit something in my sleep. Knocked over, I suppose." The lie felt thick in his mouth, his guilt soaking up the jealousy and self pity until it left his throat rough and dry. He glanced away, hoping Zevran wouldn't see the truth on his face. "I know you liked it."

"I like a great many things, dear Warden." He picked up the shard closest to him and put it in the pile Levy had started. "I like a good wine after a long day, a sunrise to follow a sunset, a polished blade in my hand..." he trailed off as he reached for another, and let his fingertips ghost over the shallow cuts in Levy's skin. "My comrades and knowing that they are not endangering themselves."

Levy watched him pull his hand back, slowly dropping the shard piece, almost deliberately. Something soft had entered his voice, and he longed to hear it again just to place the emotion, but Zevran was silent, staring at the remains of the mirror. After a moment, he traced his cuts with his own hand, closing them with what basic healing magic he knew. When he was finished, Zevran had turned his attention away from the mirror. Levy couldn't meet his eyes.

"A mirror simply reflects these joys, of course. It cannot contain them, no? Why have only the image and not the whole thing?" Zevran made to stand, as much as he could, limited by the height of the tent. "However, since I will not be able to see if I have gotten enough of my beauty rest, I believe I will make safe and retire. I would hope you take the same advice. I would dearly hate to see you unrested, amor."

Seeing his back was almost worse than finding him in the tent, evidence of his mistakes everywhere. Zevran wasn't mad, hadn't been remorseful..but there was some sort of disappointment at finding the mirror. Leverette glanced at his leg, all traces of the cuts gone. Maybe he was disappointed at the wounds. 

Leverette finished rounding up the last slivers of glass and tossed them outside to be dealt with in the morning. Maybe Morrigan would find them and hate him for breaking it. That conversation, at least, would make sense.


End file.
